


A hair-raising development

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Easter, Hair, M/M, UST, irresponsible creme egg consumption, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:21:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7779418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Grantaire sat up, stretched, scratched his chin, rubbed his eyes, and pulled from his shirt a few loose hairs which wafted away, twinkling in the lamplight like so much plastic Easter grass.  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"We're not dating," was all he said, and it sounded final.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A hair-raising development

Waking up in the middle of a friendly pile, though rather warm and calming, had a particular downside beyond a numb arm: the hair. Accustomed to and entirely at peace with his own baldness, Bossuet sometimes recognized he was perhaps overly fixated on others' coifs. In his defense his two dearest friends created enough shaggy detritus to constitute a full grown Giant Angora. 

He eased Joly's head off his arm and considered how Joly's scalp couldn't be seen for how thick his dark hair was, like one of those dogs you had to groom with a special rake for their undercoat. File that under Things Bossuet Wouldn't Say Aloud to His Boyfriend.

Then there was Grantaire, whose lighter brown locks seemed to be trying to take over Bossuet's face. Bossuet eased Grantaire's head off his other shoulder. While a little thinner than Joly's, Grantaire's hair had of late seemed to increase in length and volume hourly, like a ropy plant in springtime racing to reach full potential as quickly as possible in increasing amounts of sunshine. 

As soon as this sleep-addled thought formed in Bossuet's mind he sat bolt upright on the couch. Joly and Grantaire slumped forward snoozily into the vacuum this created and their foreheads made a tiny 'conk' noise when they bumped together that Bossuet couldn't say wasn't enjoyable. 

"You're dating Enjolras?" Bossuet asked, loudly. 

"No," Joly yawned while managing to sound offended. "Of course not." He opened one eye and sighed before closing it again. "What Enjolras and I have together is purely physical." 

Bossuet didn't doubt Joly could charm a bevy of priests into any number of scandalous sexytime scenarios. He pictured disheveled Louis XIV costumes and Enjolras setting a bank branch lobby on fire as foreplay. But he'd been talking to Grantaire, who was now pretending to be asleep.

Bossuet poked his stomach. "Hey."

"Mrrph," Grantaire said. He curled into the smallest ball-of-Grantaire he could achieve.

Bossuet waited. The silence was loud enough Joly opened both of his eyes, interested since Grantaire being reticent about any topic was like a blaring red siren. Bossuet sat on the floor and put his left hand on Grantaire's face, fingers splayed.

"MRRPH," Grantaire said, without making any effort to move.

Joly gave Bossuet a worried look and Bossuet removed his hand. Joly then sat up and scooted over. Grantaire laid his head in Joly's lap. Joly started combing his fingers through Grantaire's mess of tresses and abandoned the effort almost immediately. Once his fingers were free again a small nest of tangled strands floated down beside Bossuet.

"Wanna tell us what happened?" Joly said. 

Grantaire sighed and pressed his face against Joly's leg. Joly had a what-are-we-going-to-do expression going, the works, eyebrows askew, eyes wet, mouth bitten, and Bossuet wanted to kiss the lot of it off of him. Grantaire looked pretty miserable too, his head basically at eye level; he was easier to kiss from the floor, anyway.

Grantaire allowed the contact, sighing a wistful sigh when Bossuet stopped. 

"I'm awake." 

"Well? Spill." Bossuet propped an elbow on the cushion beside Joly's thigh and settled in for a proper tale. 

"There's. We only. We didn't." Grantaire with pinked cheeks proved utterly appealing, although Bossuet had experienced this in other settings already. "It's nothing," Grantaire concluded with rare brevity and reasonably common incoherence. 

Joly tried a different tactic. "Grantaire, if you tell us using complete sentences, we'll let you have all of the creme eggs." 

Technically this might have been playing dirty; tempting Grantaire with a candy he was as helpless in thrall of as he was Enjolras was risky. Bossuet had witnessed Grantaire consume nine creme eggs in one sitting. The security officer said later Grantaire had broken the record for number of laps around the mall before anyone caught him. They never figured out where Grantaire had thrown his clothes away.

There were two dozen creme eggs in the basket on the dining room table waiting for Sunday as part of Joly's holiday tableau. Musichetta had provided cloth napkins and a ceramic hare dressed like a gentleman farmer. Not prudish otherwise, as far as Bossuet was concerned any Friday that didn't involve public nudity was a good Friday.

Grantaire sat up, stretched, scratched his chin, rubbed his eyes, and pulled from his shirt a few loose hairs which wafted away, twinkling in the lamplight like so much plastic Easter grass. "We're not dating," was all he said, and it sounded final.

Joly looked defeated. Bossuet shrugged at him and put a hand on his knee. Grantaire remained apart, hunched slightly and staring out the window.

Bossuet wished his own solutions to life's little hiccups involved fewer intoxicants, confectionary or otherwise, or seduction. With neither of those two avenues apparently palatable he and Joly were mere witnesses to Grantaire's quiet gloom. And now Bossuet was wondering if Grantaire had been out of sorts the whole day and no one had noticed. This added to his anxiety. 

He probably wouldn't have heard the knock at the door if Joly hadn't twitched. 

Enjolras was standing on the front stoop holding a large baking pan and three bags of jelly beans. 

"Prouvaire said you were making hot cross buns?" he said. His tone conveyed he was delivering a message but also that he didn't know what it meant. 

"That's not a puzzle or anything," Joly said, holding open the door as Enjolras walked in. "Prouvaire borrowed our pan for the bunny biscuits he made for Combeferre." 

"Musichetta is going to bake buns in the pan on Sunday," Bossuet explained, since Enjolras still looked lost. He hefted the pan onto the nearby kitchen counter. 

"Ah," Enjolras said. His hair, a shade of black too shiny deep to be anything other than authentic to his DNA, gleamed under the overhead light in its typical, humidity defying way. 

He tucked one sumptuous, glossy curl behind his ear, and the usual pang of mane envy hit Bossuet clean in the chest. He allowed it its swaying power and then let the jealousy dissipate. 

"How goes the speech?" he inquired.

"Feuilly has some issues with the immigration language, so it's in his court tonight."

"Good, good," Joly said. His face now stated The-pan-was-a-ruse! and Stop-discussing-the-speech!

Enjolras's gaze had fallen on Grantaire, who was rising to his feet and returning the stare frankly. Both of their expressions were startled, rapt. Bossuet felt it was unlikely either could be depended upon for jovial banter or immigration talking points, much less a recipe swap. 

"Why don't we give you some privacy?" Joly said. His nonchalant voice needed some work but who could resist that smile? He had plucked the jelly beans out of Enjolras's hands and grabbed a piece of Bossuet's sweater before Bossuet could intervene, object, or even wave adieu.

He did sneak one look backwards. Enjolras had closed the distance between himself and Grantaire. He'd reached out, as if entranced, and was gently threading his fingers into hair at the back of Grantaire's head, while his thumbs traced the tops of Grantaire's cheeks. Bossuet pulled the bedroom door shut to keep from intruding on the scene further.

An hour later he tiptoed into his own kitchen to fetch a bunch of small bowls like Peter sneaking under Mr. McGregor's gate. Perpetually immune to health food fads like kale or odd-colored carrots, Joly had decided he needed to sort the jelly beans by flavor for some future purpose. The living room was empty. On the other side of the room the guest bedroom door was shut. 

Joly perked up at this news. "Thank goodness they've hared off." Bossuet choked on a laugh. "What?" Joly happily accepted Bossuet's bowls. "And you said I shouldn't bother putting fresh sheets on the bed in there." 

Bossuet took the bowls back and stacked them on the dresser. 

On the side of his head a piece of Joly's sumptuous mop had gone rogue. Bossuet knew there was only one way to correct this style faux pas. Joly would thank him later, or sooner. Grinning, Bossuet pulled him down onto their mattress and began a most methodical grooming.

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry about the title. And possibly everything else. :)
> 
> Bossuet as the little black dress of the Les Mis fandom is, I think, an idea first floated by PilferingApples; many thanks for that, Pilf! :)))


End file.
